Anger

Making me angry these days is about as easy as getting one of those Buckingham Palace guards with the big furry hats to crack a smile. I’ve been down and getting kicked for so long now, that simple disrespect or mistreatment doesn’t even come close to getting my ire up. Honestly, it doesn’t do you a whole lot of good to get angry in prison. You let another convict know you’re mad at him and he’s probably going to want to fight, and if you pop off at the mouth to a cop you’ll be REALLY sorry—that will either end in an ass-whipping, or a vacation to the hole, and either one will leave a bad taste in your mouth. (The blood or the food.)

But recently, these cops did something that frustrated me so much that I was ready to lick one of the jerks and stick him to the wall. I used to be a fireball in the temper department, but lately I’m a pretty cool customer. When you tick me off nowadays, I get this methodical, Don Corleone thing going, but I’m telling you—I almost blew a fuse. Here’s what happened.

I’m all about my friends and family. As weird as it may sound, I feel obligated to constantly remind them how much they mean to me. It probably seems like it would be the other way around—them reminding me how much they miss me—but I know they love me. I want to make sure that they know how important it is that I can still call them loved ones. After all these years, I don’t have many people left, so I’m doing everything I can to hold on to what I’ve got.

So, as often as I can, I send little reminders—a drawing, a card, a little note to Mom saying, “I Love You.” And not just on special occasions. I have two beautiful nieces that don’t really know me very well, but they know they have an Uncle somewhere far away who thinks the world of them. Well, I made some absolutely adorable drawings of teddy bears on white fabric, with frayed edges, full color—they were awesome. A lot of work, too. So I stuck them between some paper, threw them in a big envelope, and mailed them to my two little angels with a note saying that I made these things special, just for them, and told them how much I love them. I could just picture the ear-to-ear grin on the seven year old’s face when she opened her envelope and saw . . . nothing but a piece of paper.

That’s right, some jerk who “inspected” my mail (we’re not allowed to seal our own envelopes) swiped my niece’s presents. I can only imagine the baffled look on her angelic face as she tried to comprehend why her favorite uncle would tease her with non-existent gifts.

Obviously, I didn’t find this out right away. It wasn’t until I got a letter in the mail telling me that the drawings I promised in the letter weren’t in the envelope that I knew something was rotten in Whoville. I tend to give the benefit of the doubt in most situations, but after a while you kind of get an intuition for when the cops here are hosing you. This one felt wet.

So, I waited until the overnight shift (that’s when they sort the mail) and caught the guy who I knew was in charge of the mail as he was walking by my cell. I calmly explained the situation, hoping he would tell me it was a mistake, or something that would make me feel better. But no, this guy got a big smile on his face, and looked me right in the eyes and said, “I threw them out.”
“Why,” I inquired.
“You’re not allowed to send out drawings,” he said. (Not true!)
“Why didn’t you come tell me?” I asked.
“Because I don’t have to.”
“Why didn’t you give the drawings back?”
“You’re not allowed to have them.”
“’Cause you said so?”
“Yep. You getting smart with me?”
“Yep.” (I couldn’t help it.) “Okay, why did you still send out the letter saying that I was sending drawings?”
“Because I don’t mess with people’s mail.”
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!

In horse racing, when they get to the home stretch, the jockey starts whipping the horse furiously to get all the horse has to give. Except they don't call it “hitting” the horse—that wouldn’t be very nice. They call it “encouraging” the horse. Well, I would have liked to “encourage” the living daylights out of that cop right then and there.

Just one problem with that. Between me and him was a gigantic steel door, and he had the keys. I could’ve cussed up a storm. I could’ve “filed” a complaint. I even could have covered him in something unpleasant through the crack in the door. But in the end, none of that would have gotten my nieces their pictures, and that’s all I wanted. So I did something I’ve gotten really good at over the years. I told him that he was the boss, and I was glad I knew the rules now. Humility, my friends, is the single best weapon you can have in this place. Pride has disastrous results. Sometimes I feel like one of those oppressed Muslim women who aren't allowed to drive or be seen in public. Life is hard sometimes, but I guess most days you’re just better off not pissing off the Sultan. Because if the Sultan decides to beat you, there’s no one to complain to.

So, I’m over it now. I send an apology to the kids, and already managed to get some new art work out to them. I’m crafty like that. I don’t have to worry about my food getting spit in, and there’s no foot wedged in my derriere. Another classic win-lose situation for me here behind bars. Of course I’ll get screwed again next week, and every week after that until I get out, but at least I’ll get out, and I’m looking forward to when they hand me my pride back at the front gate. I miss it a little bit.

AN OPEN LETTER TO PARIS HILTON

Dear Paris,

Greetings from one convict to another! I hope everything is going well for you there in the “Linwood Hilton.” I wasn’t going to write you, but I see that the first couple days in jail didn’t go too well for you, so I’ll give you some advice. Ya know, from one hard-core con to another.

First of all, no more outbursts in the courtroom. You only have 23 days to do. Hold your weave high and do your time. 23 days isn’t even long enough for you to learn anything, let alone get institutionalized. After 23 days, you’re still mad you got caught, not remorseful for what you did. So suck it up, and don’t worry. You’ll still be the same irresponsible snob you were before. The only difference will be that now you’ll have street cred.

Second, we don’t feel sorry for you, so stop thinking we do. Wallowing in self pity isn’t going to make you any money, so let’s get our priorities straight. We all know that there is going to be a book coming out of this whole ordeal, so let’s not make it a boring one. It’s time to have some high incarceration adventures! Get in some cat fights! Drink some jailhouse “hooch!” You know how you made Nicole and Britney your bitches in Hollywood? Try that in there! Just walk up to the first girl you see who looks like she ought to have the nickname “Large Marge,” and slap the taste out of her mouth! Then you tell her “I’m your pimp mommy now,” and make her wash your panties in the toilet. Lindsay Lohan will cower before you when you get out! For God’s sake, give us something exciting. No one wants to read about how you found Jesus in there. We might have credibility issues with that one.

Next, we all want to see some mementos of your “hard time.” Like a tattoo. You can choose one yourself, but I would suggest something symbolic, like the judges name, or even that cool looking barbed wire around the wrist or an ankle. Also, it would be cool if you could pick up some prison lingo, and drop us a few snippets in your coming-out-of-jail press conference. Try this one, “The screws made it tough, and the chow was like, totally gross, but I kept my shank close by and nobody messed with me or my cell cell bitch.” We’ll love you forever!

Finally, let’s not get stuck in a rut here. A few weeks for probation violation is good P.R., but it’s going to take something bigger and better for the next time. We don’t really want to see you in rehab (Lindsay & Britney have that niche locked up), so simple possession isn’t going to do it for us. Winona Ryder did the shoplifting thing years ago, so that’s not going to cut it either. We’re going to need some violence out of you. Or at least a high speed chase. Start thinking about the future, okay?

Listen, we just want what’s best for you. This whole jail ordeal is going to make you a couple million at least. And that’s for 23 days. 23 days! I’m working on a 10 piece (years), and I’ll be lucky to get 50 bucks and a bus ticket home when it’s all said and done. The least you can do is be grateful for the opportunity. And maybe put me in touch with your agent?

Yours Truly,

Andrew (and the world)

Experiment

Let’s do a little thought experiment here. Picture yourself locked in your bathroom. If you have a TV or a radio in there—it is gone. All you have in there with you is a foam mattress, linen, basic hygiene products (soap, shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant), pen and paper, and a few random books to read. You are brought meals in little plastic trays three times a day. You have approximately 20 minutes to eat, and then some one will come back and demand the trays back.

Every weekday at 6:00 in the morning, you will be allowed to spend an hour in your bedroom, which is completely empty. At the end of your hour of “rec,” you will be escorted back to the bathroom (in handcuffs), not to be allowed out until the next morning. Since you already have access to a toilet, shower, and sink, there’s no need to go anywhere for hygiene purposes.

About three times a week, a nurse will walk by your bathroom door. He or she will not announce their presence, but if you happen to catch them they will listen to any health concerns you have, and refer you to a doctor. All ailments short of imminent death will be put on a waiting list, and probably take 3–4 weeks to be consulted. Dental problems will take longer, likely 2–3 months. Pain is no excuse, you should have the foresight to know when you’re developing such maladies.

You may have a total stranger in your bathroom with you. You will be expected to be cordial to each other and resolve all differences independently if you have any.

Finally, you should do your level best to avoid any emergencies. In the event you cannot refrain, you must kick your door loudly, all the while screaming, “Man Down!” hoping someone will hear you. Allow at least 15 minutes of this before expecting a response. Again, foresight of said emergency would be preferable. Oh, and if your emergency is deemed unworthy of the effort required to find out what it is, you will be disciplined (most likely with EVEN MORE time in the bathroom), so make it good. Heart attacks and strokes are mostly deemed acceptable. After that, it’s touch and go.

Congratulations! Now you know what it’s like to be in ”the hole.” How long do you think you can do it for? A day? A week? A month? The average stay is a couple months. My current record is 22 months.

Does this sort of existence slowly drive you insane? It can if you’re not careful. I’ve seen guys spend a year or two in the hole and come out broken, with their zeal gone. If you have a strong mind, though, you’ll probably be okay. You have to learn to find joy in some of the simple things in life, that’s for sure.

Let me get one thing straight before I go on—You don’t necessarily have to do anything wrong to get thrown in the hole. The penal powers-that-be use “the bucket” for any number of purposes, and punishment is only one of them. Actually, punishment is probably the least of reasons they put people in for. Most guys that get in trouble get out in a week or two. What they really throw fellas in for is either because they want to keep someone separated from someone else (so they don’t try to kill each other), they think someone needs protection, or (my favorite) because they want to discourage someone from activity that isn’t necessarily against the rules, but certainly isn’t conductive to indignation of “model prisoner behavior.”

Well, what you end up with is a bunch of really frustrated guys trying to persuade the cops to either let them out or send them somewhere so they don’t have to sit in the hole. Of course, prison officials take their sweet time doing anything. So mostly pleas are to no avail. Your basic bureaucracy has a hard time getting things organized, and this system is a headless machine if I’ve ever seen one.

So, you have to make the best of it. Like I said before, it has the potential to break you, but most of us find ways to cope. You got an opportunity to do some real soul-searching. We take pretty good care of each other, too. Whatever books or magazines we have are in constant circulation. I learned a long time ago to always read the most ragged, worn looking books I can find in here. It means they’re good. They have been read so much that they are falling apart.

Things don’t always run smooth. Guys will get into conversations with each other (you can hear through the doors) and about once a night, you can count on some ridiculous argument breaking out. This will quickly escalate into a carnival of insults, threats, and challenges worthy of a Springer-esque chant: “Jer-ry! Jer-ry!” With a couple of 400-pound steel doors between them, guys will say almost anything. You can just picture the steam coming out of these guys ears when they get all worked up, and there’s nothing they can do about it. When they get drunk and want to fight, it’s twice the madness. They will settle it by agreeing to go to the recreation cages in the morning and beat the heck out of each other, but they rarely “remember” to go.

I suppose there are some good things that can come out of an experience in isolation. You’ll get a chance to do some serious learning, if you’re so inclined. It’s a good place to figure out where you stand spiritually. You’re almost certainly safe (unless that whole medical system backfires on you) in there. You’ll get an opportunity to write lots of letters and maybe hash things out with family.

But the bottom line is, you don’t have any choice in the matter. You either adapt or lost your mind. I’d like to think my sanity is still intact, but I’m certainly not the same after the ordeal. As for whether or not I’ve gone off the deep end, I’ll let you decide. Now ,if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go spend some time with my imaginary friend, Iggy. I met him a couple years ago in the hole. He’s been with me ever since.

Death makes us real

The eminently quotable Mark Twain once scribed, “The mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but when you come to realize your fact, it takes on color. It is all the difference between hearing of a man being stabbed to the heart, and seeing it done.” If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have seen such violence, I’m sure you agree.

I grew up in the 80s, and never had cable as a kid. None of the other kids in my neighborhood did either, so my friends and I were always limited in what kind of movies we could watch. A good R-rated movie was harder for us to get our hands on than the “secret location” where our Mom hid our lunch sweets. (HELLO, Little Debbie!)

I guess we finally got a VCR when I was 8 or 9 years old, but remember, we’re talking about a time before Blockbuster Video and Netflix. Any attempt to liberate anything but purely children’s fare from the local Mom & Pop video store was sure to invoke a requested explanation (which was always the same, “It’s for my Dad!”), and ultimately an unwelcome phone call to not-so-understanding and not-quite-wanting-to-be-bothered parents who saw NO EXPLANATION for their 8 year old trying to rend “Rambo” or “Friday the 13th Part XII: Jason Kills INNOCENT OLD LADIES.”

Every now and then, still, we would somehow manage (through tactics which can never be revealed) to possess one of these forbidden and ostensibly inappropriate videotapes. Then, down in a basement, far out of parental earshot, we would torture our young psyches with scenes of Freddy Krueger slashing his sinful teenage victims, fallen heroes gaining vengeance by going on bloody rampages, and soon-to-be-robotic police officers being tortured with gunfire at the hands of the soon-to-be-remorseful bad guys.

I always had to watch the most graphic scenes through slightly spread fingers, and rarely saw the payoff. I was somehow compelled to look away at the bloodiest, goriest moments. I think we all were. But we didn’t let on. Instead, we gave high fives all around as each scene climaxed, and talked of how we couldn’t wait to see who would get it next.

Usually, sometime after the fact, our exploits would be discovered. Whether through an ineptly hidden videocassette, or a nightmare that brought the truth out of one of us in a moment of weakness. At that point, a doting mom would insist we NEVER watch such trash again, lest we be scarred for life. The thing was, we weren’t scarred for life because deep down inside, even though we were kids, we knew the difference between fantasy and reality. It was only a movie, after all.

Not long ago, fate handed me a front row seat for the most violent and gruesome of the several murders I’ve had to endure witness to. Even on the silver screen, this scene alone would easily ear a film an NC-17 rating, or worse. To watch even a fictional portrayal of such unadulterated malice and undiluted macabre would be disturbing to the sane, if not disabling to the sensitive.

But to compare the experience to marketable entertainment is simply unfair. I’m sure if you were to ask the men and women who have served in our wars, and been on the front lines where violent death is commonplace, they would tell you that no movie can replicate what they saw and felt.

I am not a Veteran, but I can tell you this: Improvised prison shanks do not whistle in slow motion when they kill. Cold-blooded murderers do not stop and say insightful, plot-related things before they take a life. The look on a man’s face as he comes to the realization that he has been eviscerated is not worthy of a close-up shot, because it only comes fleeting as he slumps to the floor lifeless, expired. And the moment after it is over, there is no invisible hand (or editor) that cuts to some less dramatic scene. You cannot erase or soon forget the evidence of what has just happened in front of you.

There are very few of us in prison who are so heartless, so void of emotion that they are not deeply affected by being witness to a killing. We all deal with it in different ways. Some try to laugh about it, some try to desensitize, a few even secretly go to their cells and cry. Almost always, however, you can count on there being a serenity and reflectivity throughout the prison for at least a few days afterwards. Even in instances where there is to be a retaliation murder, it seems we are all given a brief time to adjust, as if too much violence at once would somehow be more than we could collectively handle.

On average, a maximum-security penitentiary probably has one or two homicides a year inside its walls. We’re never all in the same place at the same time, so most men will only see a couple of them happen throughout the course of their sentence. I’ve seen more than my share. Yet it only took one to do what all those slasher movies couldn’t do—change me forever. I will never be the same since I saw unexpected death come and steal a victim for the first time. I’m not going to soliloquize here about how it put everything in perspective; how life has a deeper meaning for me now. What I do want to tell you is that it helped me get my priorities straight. My new number one priority after that was to get out of here alive, and that hasn’t changed; I’ve almost made it, too.

I don’t care to watch any of those violent types of movies anymore. It’s not that they bother me anymore than they did before, either. It’s because they don’t feel like anything anymore. There’s no longer a thrill when those forbidden moments happen. I guess once you’ve been on the Space Shuttle, getting on a 747 doesn’t really do anything for you anymore.

Of course, no one here knows that this is how I feel. I wear my poker face well. Since we started with Mark Twain, we will end with some of his wisdom, also. He wrote, “A king is a mere artificiality, and so a kings feelings, like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities; but as a man, are real, not phantoms. We are anything but kings, but as prisoners we wear many masks that are completely artificial. Every once in a while, though, something gets beyond our armor. And when we watch someone die, most of us become real.”